A Beautiful Heist (8 page)

My mother found me. “It’s almost time, Catherine. Let’s get coffee.”

I ordered two lattes from Starbucks and handed one to my mom. As she steered a direct course for the front row, I sipped my drink and glanced at the poster propped on an easel.

Hot coffee spurted out of my nose.

Oh. My. God.

The author of this juicy expose was none other than Brooke Sinclair, my old friend. And by
old friend
I actually meant loathsome, vile, abhorrent archenemy. How could this be? Brooke was supposed to be in prison. I’ll admit I didn’t—thankfully—know a lot about prison, but I was pretty sure she was not supposed to be walking around freely, never mind publishing memoirs and gallivanting on book tours. But this wasn’t the first time Brooke had turned up in my life, unexpected and unwelcome.

I took a closer look at the poster. Prison certainly hadn’t changed her appearance: same raven hair and deceptively angelic face. The title of the book?
The Good Girl’s Guide to Jewel Theft.

Oh, please.

The funny thing was, Brooke and I hadn’t always been enemies. In fact, we started out as friends. We were both undergraduate students at NYU. One day, many years ago, I was leaving the old stone library on campus and saw an opportunity too good to ignore. After bumping, just lightly, into a gentleman who was passing me, I apologized. For bumping into him, that is, not for lifting his wallet—which had been dead easy.

Anyway, the moment I lifted the wallet I noticed a young woman seated at a table looking directly at me. She raised an eyebrow and smiled knowingly.

My stomach squeezed. She’d seen me. It was something that had never happened to me before—getting caught. I didn’t know what to do, so I turned and hurried down the broad marble steps to the foyer and out the door.

Nothing happened until the next day. I was reading
Madame Bovary
on the campus lawn when the same woman sat down beside me.

“We’ve got something in common,” she said, and smiled.

And that was how I met Brooke Sinclair, professional jewel thief.

I was thrilled when she took me under her wing. Over the next couple of years she transformed me from a common, amateur burglar into a true professional. She taught me the finer points of the craft: circumventing high-tech security, analyzing blueprints, maneuvering ledges in high heels, etcetera. The thing is, I don’t think she expected I would become any good.

But I did. In fact, I became really good. And I loved it. I loved the thrill, the excitement, the challenge . . . everything. Even better, I began to get the attention of the chief officers at Larceny New York, the prestigious agency that Brooke worked for.

They began asking Brooke about me. It was just at this time that Brooke had started discouraging me from pursuing jewel theft as a career. But by that time I was hooked.

Really, I should have seen it coming.

In Barnes and Noble, Brooke breezed by me on her way to the podium, in a swirl of Christian Dior perfume. Her long dark hair was smooth and glossy and her slender figure was perfectly defined in a tailored white Donna Karan suit. Before she got any farther I grabbed her elbow and pulled her aside. Her eyes popped wide and she stiffened, then relaxed when she saw it was me.

“Oh hello, Cat,” she said smoothly, looking bored now.

“Brooke, what the hell is going on?” I spat in a low voice. “How did you get out of prison? What’s this book garbage?” I waved my hand in the direction of the poster.
“Good Girl?
Please. Are you kidding me with that?”

She shrugged. I rolled my eyes. “Never mind that,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“Um, I’m signing my books.” She reached for a book and cracked open the front cover. “How shall I address yours?”

“Brooke, cut the crap. You know what I mean.”

The manager of the bookstore approached, a man with a too-long neck and ears like portobello mushrooms. “Miss Sinclair, are you ready to begin?” he asked in a whispering voice, gazing at her like she was a rare butterfly. “The crowd is getting a little restless.”

I looked out to see the eager faces of blue-haired ladies, young moms wrestling toddlers, preteens with braces, all turned to Brooke like she was some kind of movie star. I scraped my teeth together. I guess it had been naivete on my part thinking I’d seen the last of Brooke Sinclair. Because there she was, back to haunt me. Like the roots of your natural hair color growing back in.

In New York, as I had been learning the trade and gaining an excellent reputation as Brooke’s protégé, LNY hired me on probation. They gave me an assignment—my first solo job, and it was a crucial test, to see if I had the chops to work for them. The target was a famous diamond necklace, from a guest room at the Plaza, no less. It was better than being asked to the prom by the high-school heartthrob.

As I was reviewing blueprints in my dorm, preparing for the theft later that evening, I received a text message from the agency.

 

Good job. We’ll see you at 5 p.m. for the transfer.

 

What?
Then I saw the headline on the news: F
RENCH
D
IAMOND
N
ECKLACE
S
TOLEN.
My mouth hung open. Someone else had scooped it before I had.

I rushed directly to LNY’s head office. As I attempted to explain, they received a call from the team that had been dispatched to search my room. They’d found the necklace tucked under my mattress.

Needless to say, I was immediately fired. Truth is I was lucky that was all that happened. I suppose they took mercy upon me, being young and inexperienced.

I was angry and confused. Who would have done this? Brooke flashed into my mind—but why would she betray me? We were friends. Brooke was my mentor. And she already
had
everything. What would she have to gain?

Still, I had to know for sure. I gathered my nerve and went to find her.

“Tell me this wasn’t you,” I said, standing in Brooke’s dorm room.

One look at her smug face gave me my answer.

I struggled to stay calm. I felt like the carpet had been ripped out from under me. “Why?”

“Because someone needed to show you, Cat, how these things are meant to work.” She began filing her nails. “I saw what was happening to you. You were getting overconfident. You needed to be brought back to reality a little.”

“A
little?
I was fired from the agency!”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’ll find other work.” Then she paused. Knitting her perfectly shaped eyebrows together, she said, “You know, I’m not so sure LNY was the best fit for you anyway. I mean
I’m
the professional jewel thief here. I just taught you what I know. But the truth is, it’s really not your thing, Cat. You do
okay,
I suppose. But you’ll never truly excel. You’re not anything special. In fact, I’ve been quite concerned you would make a mistake and get caught. You should probably consider a different line of work. I hear there’s a lot of money to be made pickpocketing on the subway.”

My response to this was to buckle and retreat home to Seattle, where I transferred to the University of Washington. That was a very dark time for me. But I eventually recovered and started working again. That was how I came to be at AB&T.

“Two minutes, please,” Brooke said to the bookstore manager, in a silken voice. He grinned, flushing to his ears. I expected him to return with a latte and an offer to rub her feet.

“Unbelievable,” I whispered angrily. “Come here.”

I dragged her into the ladies’ room. We needed to talk and we needed some privacy. Unfortunately, there was another woman in the restroom standing by the sinks. We paused and waited for her to leave. The woman was notably overweight, bent toward the mirror, carefully applying lipstick.

Seconds ticked by. Brooke cleared her throat and made eye contact with the woman’s reflection. “Please. Do you really think that lipstick makes any difference?” She looked the woman up and down, just once.

The woman blinked, hand frozen in midair. And then her face crumpled as she stuffed the lipstick in her purse and stumbled out. I glared at Brooke, who wore a smug smile and brushed a piece of lint from the shoulder of her jacket. “There. Problem solved,” she said. She twisted the lock on the restroom door, ensuring us privacy. “Now. You were saying?”

This was vintage Brooke, ruthless and cruel, doing whatever it took, no matter who got hurt. “You haven’t changed,” I said.

She shrugged.

“Why aren’t you in prison?” I demanded.

“Did you honestly think I would be kept there? Really, it didn’t take long . . . a few phone calls to the right people, you know, and voilà.”

“If it was so easy for you to get out, why did you stay there at all?” I asked, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. She’d been behind bars for at least six months.

“Well, I had to call in a couple of favors that I was hoping to save for later,” she said, a look of mild regret on her flawless face.

I dug my nails into my palms. This was so typical. Brooke’s career was ruined. She was locked away. And what did she do? She came back stronger. And better. And famous.
Arrggh.

“So how much truth is in this thing, anyway?” I asked, poking the hardcover book in her hands.

“Oh, some,” she said. “But I haven’t named names.”

“Right. Well, I guess I should thank you in that case.”

“You know, Cat, I wouldn’t be so quick to do that.” With that, Brooke’s bored expression rearranged into something nastier. Her eyes became hard black chips. “I haven’t forgotten how I ended up in prison in the first place.”

I swallowed. “Oh, right.”

Okay, so that was true. Brooke had been incarcerated because of me. But in my defense, she had it coming. Last year, Brooke tracked me down in Seattle after she began hearing rumors about my successes, and she set out to ruin my career. She systematically undermined everything I did.

But I fought back—something I hadn’t done the first time we’d clashed. In the process, Brooke ended up losing. Of course, I didn’t exactly win fair and square. I did have some help from the FBI, in the form of Jack Barlow. I frowned, wondering. Would I have been able to best her, if I hadn’t had that advantage? I pushed the prickly thought away.

“Fact is, Cat, I’m
never
going to forget it,” Brooke said. She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back against the row of sinks.

My attention returned to Brooke. “Oh,” I said quietly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, I’m going to make you pay.”

I fidgeted with the edge of my cardigan and forced a light laugh. “Please, Brooke—could you come up with something a little less clichéd?”

She ignored me. “It’s called—in a word—revenge, Cat. Pure and simple. You ruined my ability to do what I was put in this world for. In this life I had one true thing, and that was my career as a thief.” Her chin was high. Her voice cracked—ever so slightly—and for just a moment I felt like I was seeing behind the polished, lacquered surface and into the true Brooke. “I’m going to do the same to you. Not right away. I’ll watch you squirm a little first.”

Her face was ice-queen cold. There was no trace of humor. A dark discomfort crept up my neck. Brooke flipped open the lock to the restroom.

“One more thing, Cat,” said Brooke, her hand on the door. “You’ll always be second rate, and you know it. You can never be as good as me.” She strode from the restroom back to her adoring crowd.

The applause sounded muffled to me, underwater. My face was hot with anger, but doubt crowded into my brain. Was she right? I splashed cold water on my face.

Well then.
Only one way to find out.

A driveway curved in front of the looming mansion in Madison Park, a leafy Seattle neighborhood. Sequined masks glittered in the darkness as partygoers arrived. A warm breeze ruffled the burnished leaves of grand oak and chestnut trees. Lights glittered in the endless stretch of windows across the front of the house. Lanterns glowed along the serpentine path and up the steps to the front door. There was a crisp smell in the air of early autumn: apples and pine and wood smoke.

I drew the peacock-feather mask down over my eyes and climbed from the cab, clutching my invitation to the masquerade ball.

Finding a mask that was formal-ball suitable had been surprisingly easy: Yellow pages under
Costume Shop.
Finding an outfit to coordinate with said mask? Not so much. But I did okay. I swished my black silk Marchesa gown (a loaner from Mel) and glided up the steps in sparkling evening sandals.

My heart thrummed with excitement. I loved a party. Loved it even more when it involved an intriguing new assignment. There were a lot of reasons I decided to come here tonight. The deeper reasons—the ones involving my feelings about my sister, and proving myself, and proving Brooke wrong—were distracting and thorny so I attempted to ignore them. I focused instead on the practical stuff: namely, the money. Nothing like a threatening letter from the IRS to push a girl into a little moonlighting.

Even still, I couldn’t completely quell the feeling I was making a big mistake. The assignment was going to be dangerous, and I could risk my entire career. Were those risks worth the potential gain?

I’d had a friend run a background check on Sandor (a friend who happened to be a retired intelligence officer from AB&T). I wanted to be sure Sandor was telling the truth. And, indeed, his testimony about being a Romanov descendant held up. An official AB&T assignment would have come with a much more detailed dossier, of course. But that couldn’t be helped.

I approached the glossy black doors to the enormous manor. I’d never been here before so I was on my guard.

And so, apparently, was the large German Shepherd stationed next to the two security staff at the entrance.

“Nice teeth,” I said, attempting friendliness. The blocklike, uniformed guards stopped me with a glare, as they did everyone. I produced the invitation Sandor had given me. They scrutinized it, scrutinized me, scrutinized it a little more, and finally let me in. I passed through a foyer, then French doors swung wide and I entered a grand ballroom.

Ice sculptures of swans and dolphins sparkled beneath enormous chandeliers; the vaulted ceiling was hung with crimson twists of velvet and satin garland. Dancers glided over the black-and-white checkerboard marble floor, clad in sequined and feathered masks, tuxedos, and satin gowns. A big brass orchestra filled the room with bright swing music.

I surveyed the room full of strangers. Well, I was assuming they were strangers, but of course I couldn’t be certain because of the masks. That guy over there? Could have been my dentist. Who knew?

By the same token, of course, I wasn’t particularly recognizable. Which was a state of affairs that was definitely within my comfort zone. What was not comfortable was the dress. Mel was a half size smaller than me and the gown was cut to fit.

Never mind. Shallow breaths.

The other source of discomfort was not knowing what was coming next. Did I need to find Sandor? Should I wait for him to find me? What?

A waiter appeared with a tray of fig and prosciutto canapes. I helped myself to one of the proffered canapes and sank my teeth into it. It was salty, sweet, and crunchy all at once—delicious.

I sauntered over to the bar and casually scanned the room. And then I saw someone I recognized. In spite of the gilded Venetian mask, he was unmistakable. And he was the last person I expected to see here. I can’t say how I knew it was him, exactly. Something about the set of his shoulders or the angle of his jaw and the self-assured, sharklike way he moved as he made his way through the crowd.

What the hell was
Jack
doing there?

I did not want him to see me. I looked frantically for a gap in the crowd, but people were shoehorned in by the bar. Had he spotted me yet? I hazarded another glance. Yep. Definitely seen me. On his way over, in fact.

And all I could think was:
Damn,
why did he have to look so good in a tuxedo?

“Hi, Cat,” he said in a low voice. There was no hint of doubt in his tone. Evidently, I was just as identifiable to him. I wondered how? What were my tells that he knew so well?

I noticed that his eyes were shifting. He looked around constantly, and his muscles were tense, like compressed springs. Interesting. He was working. I wondered what was going on there. What case was he working on? Was there something worth stealing? Some other criminal activity about to go down?

“Hello, Jack,” I said, and I was pleased at how cool and aloof my voice came out considering the burning sensation in my chest and the brisk rate my heart was clipping.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” His voice sounded tight: by
surprised
he clearly meant
unhappy.

“Why?” His comment set off an alarm. Why wouldn’t I be here? What was going on? My questions quickly turned to indignation. Did he think I wasn’t good enough to be invited to an exclusive party like this?

Jack sipped his amber-colored drink—a Manhattan, I suspected—and looked around again. He then leaned in and lowered his voice even further. “Cat, this isn’t a good place to be.”

I barely registered his words as the scent of his cologne curled its way into my nose and I could feel the warmth from his body as he leaned close. The room went into soft focus. But then I noticed something: a small black earpiece in Jack’s left ear. My attention snapped. Who was he communicating with?

“What do you mean, not a good place?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. The orchestra grew a little louder, swinging into full dance rhythm rich with trumpets and clarinets and drums.

“I can’t get into it here. Just listen to me:
go home.”

I felt an angry heat rising up my neck, and my fingers clenched around the stem of my glass. “Excuse me?” I snapped. Issuing vague, veiled warnings was one thing; ordering me away as though I was a helpless child was something altogether different.

“It’s dangerous here,” he said.

My teeth went on edge. “And just where do
you
get off telling me what to do?”

He straightened. “I’m only looking out for you.”

“Listen, you broke up with
me,
remember? You don’t have the right anymore. Besides, I can take care of myself.” The crowd was thickening; someone bumped into me from behind, jostling me.

“I know that, Cat, but—”

“But nothing. You just do your job, and I’ll do mine,” I said.

He was about to take a swig of his Manhattan when his hand froze with his glass midway to his mouth. “Your job—you mean you’re working right now?”

Crap.

“No. I mean—maybe. Whatever. It’s none of your business.” Memo to self: Keep a clear head in future when tearing strips off ex-boyfriends, to avoid incriminating slipups.

“Cat, you know I’m just worried about you.”

“Once again,
not
your problem.”

With this, I turned abruptly and strode off. I marched by a knot of masked, laughing women, and past the carving station rich with scents of roasted meat, to the far side of the room.

Did he think I was incapable? That I was a complete rookie? He knew what I did for a living, for Christ’s sake. The last thing I needed was an egotistical ex-boyfriend playing the hero, behaving like I was some sort of distressed damsel in need of saving. I screwed my hands into fists as I imagined his thought process: the kid’s not necessarily worth keeping around as a girlfriend, but still let’s rescue poor helpless little Cat. . . .

And just as I realized that I was muttering aloud—“arrogant, self-righteous . . .”—I sensed someone close behind me. Hairs lifted at the nape of my neck.

“Hello, Miss Montgomery.” I recognized Sandor’s voice. I turned.

Sandor wore a red and black harlequin mask. His white tuxedo hung awkwardly on his shoulders, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable in such a formal garment. The effect was endearing, actually, like that of a kid going to a junior high prom.

“So you’ve decided to accept our offer?” he said.

“Yes.” My insides flip-flopped like a fish in the bottom of a rowboat. I hoped I was making the right decision.

He nodded and clasped his hands together. “Excellent. Come with me. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

 

Jack stood beside Wesley on the mezzanine, surveying the masquerade ball after his argument with Cat. Wesley adjusted his lime green jester’s mask and placed his hands on the iron banister. “Cat Montgomery is here,” Jack said in a grim voice, scrutinizing the crowd, sipping his Manhattan.

“What?
said Wesley, abruptly turning to Jack. “What is she doing here?” His voice was low, ripe with suspicion.

“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

Jack kept his gaze tethered on Cat, who stood by the piano swirling a glass of champagne. He had been shocked to see her here. Even so, he’d recognized her instantly. His impulse on first spotting her had been to sweep her away. Far away, to safety.

That,
Jack thought, would not have gone over well. He’d seen the fire in her blue eyes, just moments ago, as she had advised him she could take care of herself. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, in spite of himself. Life had never been dull with Cat. Different than life with Nicole, now. Not that things were boring with Nicole. Just different. Comfortable. Nicole was like Thanksgiving at a cozy country cottage; Cat was a weekend in Vegas.

He watched her sip her champagne. The intriguing thing about Cat, of course, was that she was so much more than she appeared. Like now, for instance, looking exquisite in her cocktail dress but so much more fascinating than any other beautiful woman in the room. Beautiful women were easy to find. But a woman with secrets, with hidden talents and skills and an unexpected familiarity with the dark side . . . Jack inhaled deeply, then clenched his fists.
No, Jack. Not what you need.

“What’s she doing here?” Wesley muttered, repeating himself. “Maybe she’s after the same thing we are. She could ruin everything,” he whispered harshly.

Jack could see that Cat was talking to someone now. He strained to make out the portion of face not covered by the harlequin mask. Who was it? Jack couldn’t tell.

Despite everything he knew about Cat, an uncomfortable itch traveled up his spine at the thought of leaving her down there, knowing the dangers in the room. Treacherous underworld types were here. The Caliga specifically, and they were not a friendly bunch.

They were very good at disguising this, of course, consummate wolves in sheep’s clothing. The leader, in particular, was reported to be extremely unpleasant, but with the face of an innocent. They’d had great difficulty obtaining a clear photograph.

Still, what was Cat doing here? Could she possibly be wrapped up with the Caliga?

No. It was impossible. She was a thief, not a gangster or a murderer. He’d always felt confident that Cat was a good person at her core. Could he have been wrong about that? No, she must be here for another reason. He looked down at the party. There was a lot of glitter here that would attract a jewel thief. Had she simply stumbled onto the wrong party?

The trouble was, he had work to do. He had an important contact here at this ball and the rendezvous was crucial. The contact, a Caliga insider, had information on the whereabouts of the Fabergé.

“Listen,” Jack said to Wesley. “I want you to follow Cat, see what she’s up to. I’ll make the rendezvous with our informant. I’ll let you know when I’ve made contact.” Jack lightly touched his earpiece.

Wesley nodded. “No problem. I’m on it.”

“You can handle this, right?” Jack turned to Wesley, eyeing him carefully. Wesley was sharp, Jack knew that. And he had experience in covert operations. But Jack had never worked with him, and Jack tended to not trust anything until he’d seen it with his own eyes. “She’s good—very good at making herself disappear,” Jack warned.

“I can handle it,” Wesley said in a clipped tone. He glanced around the ballroom. Then he frowned. “But—where is she now?”

Jack turned back to look at the dance floor. “She’s over by the piano—”

But Cat wasn’t there. Jack’s brow lowered. She had been right there just a second ago. The two men scanned the crowd. She had to be there somewhere.

Damn,
Jack thought. They had to find her, needed to have her whereabouts pinned before undertaking the delicate rendezvous operation they had planned. He did not need wild cards like Cat Montgomery at large here. Jack rubbed his forehead; he felt a headache coming on. This was going to complicate things.

Where was she? And what was she up to?

Most importantly, was she in danger?

 

With quick steps, Sandor led me from the ballroom. I followed him through a labyrinth of corridors richly carpeted with hand-woven Persian rugs. We entered a small drawing room with dark green walls and a stone fireplace, and he closed the door behind us. Tapestries and a large full-length ornate mirror decorated the walls. He turned to me. He pushed his mask up off his face, and I did the same. I saw his face clearly for the first time tonight—the smooth skin, a small shaving nick on his chin.

“Now, before we continue, Miss Montgomery, you have to understand that this is an irreversible decision.”

“Right,” I said, nodding, waiting for him to elaborate. My insides tightened. He said nothing. “So . . . could you clarify what you mean by that?”